The Things That Define Us
by tfm
Summary: Kidnapped, in pain and alone, Emily reaches out and finds the one thing that will keep her sane. Hotch/Prentiss two-shot. CD. DARK, but not violent. Much.
1. Part I

The Things That Define Us

_**The peculiar striations that define someone's personality are too numerous to know, no matter how close the observer. A person we think we know can suddenly become someone else when previously hidden strands of his character are called to the fore by circumstance.**_

_Elliot Perlman_

***

'We describe ourselves in terms of height, age, hair color. These things are shallow, skin-deep. The things that really define us – pain, loss, strength of character. These are the things that tell us who a person really is.'

'So you kidnapped and tortured twenty-seven women as a psychological experiment?'

'...yes.'

***

Her eyes blinked open, only to be met with impenetrable darkness. It was as cold here as it had been outside; the winter chill had come early. It wasn't even December yet. Something rough rubbed against her wrists – rope, she thought. Though she had been determined to avoid such experiences, she had grown to recognise the symptoms of capture. Low vision, hands bound, and that throbbing. Her head pounded with incessant agony, as though she had been trampled by a hoard of rampaging elephants. Slowly, she came to remember.

***

It was late. Late and cold. Neither were optimal conditions for searching a victim's house, especially when the heating was broken. Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss stood on the threshold, on the verge of passing the proverbial precipice. Hotch's gloved hand was grasping the handle, about to turn, when his phone began to ring. He stopped, withdrew his hand, pulled off his glove.

'It's Haley,' he announced, staring for several seconds at the Caller ID screen.

'It could be important,' shrugged Emily. She had never known Haley that well, certainly not well enough to either encourage or discourage her supervisor from taking the call based on personal reasons. All she knew was that if someone was calling at this time, it was probably for a good reason. Hotch, apparently agreed.

'Haley.' He answered the phone curtly, though a softness in his expression indicated that it pained him to do so. 'Which hospital?' His expression had turned from one of calm to one of panic, his voice from detached to fearful.

'I can be there in a few hours. No, I'm in Virginia, but I'm working a case.' He moved the phone slightly away from his ear. Even through the tinny speakers, Emily could hear the barrage of Haley's yelling. She thought, perhaps it would be optimal to save Hotch some trouble.

'Go,' she told him. 'I've got this.'

He covered the microphone. 'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. Go. I'll call Morgan when I'm done. Get him to pick me up.'

He returned to Haley, the tiniest amount of relief gracing his face. 'I can be there in twenty minutes.' He hung up the phone. 'Thank-you,' he told Emily, and was off without further notice.

She watched the car pull away before she opened the door. It felt empty inside. There was an overabundance of furniture and ornaments, for sure, but it lacked the human presence that let you know a house was lived in.

This house hadn't been lived in for three months, one week and two days. The length of time their victim had been missing. No body had ever been found; all they had to give credence to the theory that the victims were dead was the word of the unsub.

Looking for attention, Emily had surmised to herself.

There was movement in the corner of her eye. She realised she had forgotten to clear the house. Haley's call had pushed any thoughts of possible hostiles in the house to the back of her mind. Her hand brushed her holster, ready to draw if the circumstances required it.

She didn't hear the dull crack as the heavy object struck the back of her skull, didn't hear the thud as her head hit the floor.

***

She heard a noise – footsteps. The echoed sound of sole striking concrete. A pause, then another sound. A click. The lights flashed on, a blinding juxtaposition to the former darkness. She clenched her eyes shut as white dots danced in front of her.

'Are you in pain?' A cold voice. It didn't seem concerned, nor was it sadistic. Curiosity seemed a better description.

'You've been unconscious for three days. Severe concussion. I stitched up the wound.' Finally able to see without cognitive interference, she took note of their unsub's – she knew it was their unsub – appearance. Tall, attractive. One of the world's Jeffery Dahmer's. He had something in his hand – an object she couldn't quite identify.

'You're with the FBI.' It wasn't technically a question, but the way he said it, the way his voice lifted at the end of the sentence. She knew he wanted an answer. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction he seemed to desire.

Emily Prentiss was no stranger to pain. Falling off her bike when she was seven. Breaking her arm at twelve. A rather severe mosh pit incident at seventeen. Cyrus. That, of course, was just the physical pain. To list the depths of her emotional pain would take quite a bit longer, and would probably require an alcoholic incentive. When the electric current arced through her entire body, touching pain receptors from head to toe, it was more pain than she had felt ever before. It hit everywhere at once, as though a flame had consumed her.

The pain lingered for a few moments, even after he had stopped. By the time it did, she was panting. It was hard to breathe. It had been so sudden, so unexpected, that the thought of screaming hadn't even entered her mind. A tear – an unconscious reaction – had escaped, but nothing that would have given any fulfilment to a sadist.

But was this unsub a sadist?

She didn't think so. He was searching for something, and it wasn't pleasure.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't find pleasure along the way.

***

Every cop had one of those cases. The case where the killer was left uncaught, or the victims left unavenged. The case that almost felt like it couldn't be solved. For dozens of law enforcement officers across the country, the Ladykiller case was one of those cases.

It had been christened as such by a Miami Detective, in spite of there being no evidence that such a name was at all descriptive of the crimes being committed. The case had caused three marital breakdowns, one suicide, a mid-life crisis, nine cases of police brutality and six resignations.

When the unsub was ultimately captured (the result of an anonymous tip), Emily Prentiss had been missing for eight months, two weeks and one day.

***

Derek Morgan found himself accompanying a SWAT team into the dark, dilapidated building. The swiftness with which it went down, it was almost as if the unsub had been waiting for them.

'Where is she?!' His gun was pressed up against the bridge of the unsub's nose. His fingers were shaking. He longed so much to pull that trigger.

'Downstairs.' His answers came without any "persuasion".

'Watts?' Morgan looked over towards one of the SWAT guys.

'We haven't seen a downstairs,' Watts responded. Morgan turned back towards their unsub, pressing just his weapon just a tiny bit harder.

'Guest bedroom. Trapdoor, under the rollaway bed. First door on the left,' he added helpfully, as Morgan ran for the guest bedroom. The whole time the SWAT team had been in the house, the sly smile – almost a smirk – hadn't left the unsub's face.

Downstairs, there was a long hallway. Tall, menacing doors threatened Morgan to guess what was behind them. Macabre possibilities raced through his mind. Torture chambers, lined with whips and pliers and other paraphernalia. Slaughterhouses, where the unsub would dissect his victims, keeping organs in jars, limbs in freezers.

Derek Morgan was a better profiler than even he knew.

The first door on the left was locked, but a tiny key hung on a hook beside a light switch. He flipped the switch and unlocked the door.

A tiny figure, curled in the corner.

'Emily!' He rushed over towards her, and without considering her state of being, pulled her into a tight hug. She didn't resist his embrace, nor did she seem to be accepting of it. Finally, he let go, contenting himself to grasp her thin hand. He knew if he had the inclination and the anatomical knowledge, he probably could have counted every single bone that he felt now, jutting into his hand.

'It's going to be okay.' He couldn't bear to look at her face; she would see the lie in his eyes.

Into his wrist mike, he spoke the words he'd so desperately wanted to say for months. 'I've got her.'

***

Hotch sat in his car, staring up at the hospital. He didn't know if he could bring himself to go inside, to see her.

***

'What methods did you use to find "definition?"?'

'Torture, rape, deprivation. I could have used other methods, of course. But these were the most brutal. The hardest hitting. You can't find definition by just doing something that's only a little bit traumatic. You know what I mean?'

'What did you find?'

'It varied a fair bit. For example, your girl Emily. She refused to succumb for a while; two weeks, or so. That's the longest any of them lasted. For a while after that, it was fairly unchanging. Then she almost seemed to stop feeling the pain altogether.'

'You sound almost impressed.'

'She was different.'

'Special?'

'No...just different.'

***

He didn't talk at first. He would just keep her company. She couldn't bring herself to cry in front of him. He would think her weak, useless. She didn't seem to think it strange, being self-conscious about the thoughts of a hallucination. This was her mind, trying to comfort her in some way.

After several days, he finally did talk. He put a hand on her shoulder. She could feel it, even though she knew it wasn't really there. That he wasn't really there. His voice – Hotch's voice – spoke, and that calmed her more than anything.

'It's okay to cry,' he said. As though she needed his approval, his blessing. He held her then. If the unsub looked in, which he did often, he would have seen a sobbing woman, arms wrapped around herself.

Showing definition.

***

The small hospital room seemed so much smaller, crowded as it was. One doctor, one patient, and five concerned FBI personnel. There was one glaring absence, one that nobody wanted to mention.

Hotch.

The doctor was surprised at his patient's medical condition. There had been extensive trauma over the cause of her ordeal, but it had been all treated expertly, either healed, or on the course of healing. She hadn't even needed surgery. Those five public servants knew what the doctor did not, that their unsub had a medical license, albeit an expired one. That he had treated those wounds only so that he could create new ones, to see just what it would take for his victims to show definition.

They would keep her in hospital nonetheless. After an ordeal as long as hers had been, it would have been criminal not to.

She wasn't talking. They weren't even sure that she registered their presence. She simply stared into the corner of the room, as though something wasn't there that should have been.

One by one, they left. There was nothing they could do there now. A psychologist was coming after lunch.

Maybe they would have better luck the next day.

***

'She struck me as someone who had felt pain before. I would say that pain plays a strong part in defining her, as it does us all...'

***

Morgan and Reid found themselves back at the house. They knew if they had a greater understanding of what their colleague had been through, they might be able to get through to her.

The first door on the left of the long, narrow hallway. Morgan had been here once before, but hadn't taken in his surroundings. He had been distracted by something else.

It was a small room, barely three feet by six. An old bucket stood in one corner, the only defining feature of the otherwise stark room. The smell that still emanated from it gave the two profilers a fairly weighty clue as to the purpose of the bucket.

The second door on the left. Morgan opened it quickly, as if he thought he would chicken out if he took his time. Even then, he almost backed out of the room after seeing its contents and its purpose.

The scene hadn't been processed yet. The CS techs would be there as soon as someone was free; today, it seemed, was a busy day for criminals. One of the SWAT agents had given a quick rundown of the rooms in the basement of the house. Even that didn't prepare him for the deadly, sinking feeling that came from being in this room.

One chair in the middle, leather straps at the arms and legs. It wasn't as though she would have been escaping anyway; he had sliced her Achilles tendons in the first week.

Surrounding the chair, strange instruments lined walls and tables. Reid recognised most of them – for once in his life, he was regretting his own memory. He wished he didn't know what those tools were for, the kinds of screams that were imprinted upon those tiny pieces of steel, blood that would never wash clean. Souls that had been lost inside this one room.

For one fleeting moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, this was as bad as it got.

He knew he was deluding himself.

***

It was amazing; the things one could do with a single knife. This blade was thin, sharpened to the finest point. Just brushing the blade along your finger could draw a drop of blood. He was doing more than brushing.

He would make the same mark every day. He would start just next to her eye, and follow the path down her bare chest to just below the navel. At first she thought it strange – a sign of emotional investment in a man that didn't seem that emotionally invested. It was almost a sign of ownership.

Soon, though, she stopped seeing him as a person, her tormentor, and starting seeing him as a static presence. The moon, the sun, and her endless pain. He was not alone in his fixed nature. Ironic that the one thing that kept her sane was a figment of her imagination.

Every second he wasn't there, she missed him. She grew reliant on him. A strange addiction to the man that kept her safe.

She wondered if that was love.

***

It was late. Late and cold. Aaron Hotchner wrapped his coat around him and entered the hospital.

***

When he appeared, it was like a candle in the darkness.

'You're here,' she whispered into her pillow.

'How could I not come?'

'I thought...maybe you were afraid. Afraid of what you might see.'

A hand grasped hers. It felt so real. Warm flesh, blood pulsing. She reciprocated the squeeze.

'What is there to be afraid of?' Hotch asked her. She imagined his eyes to be dark and serious, even though she couldn't see them.

She didn't answer. She didn't think she could.

***

'...and loss. How we can rely on something so much that losing it will break us. A person, usually. Mother, husband. Child...Tell me, have you ever held a fetus in your hand, tiny heart still pounding?'

'...No.'

'It really makes you understand the fragility of life. In her case, though...that was the day she stopped screaming. It was so much more than a physical loss.'

***

She was on the floor, shivering. The pain was overwhelming, but physical and emotional. The hand on her shoulder was of little comfort.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

'It's okay. We'll get through this together. I'll always be here for you. You don't have to feel the pain.'

And she didn't. Not anymore.

***

The third door on the left.

The room was full of bodies. Perfectly preserved snapshots in time. The first twenty-six victims. Should they be grateful that there was no twenty-seven? Reid couldn't answer that. Not yet.

'Some of them are missing limbs,' Morgan noted. A finger here, a toe there. One woman had her entire left leg removed.

'Back wall,' said Reid. Jars upon jars of what appeared to be those missing limbs. A kidney in one. Eyeballs in another. 'The jars are numbered. Corresponding to which victim the object was taken from.' He couldn't refer to them as anything other than objects.

'Check for a twenty-seven.' Morgan's voice was cracking. It was a struggle not to break down.

'One jar.' Reid examined the jar on the shelf. It didn't exactly take his expert knowledge to identify the specimen. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Here was real physical proof of what she had been through.

For one fleeting second, he wondered about her chances of recovery. For one fleeting second, he doubted.

***

He hesitated to enter the hospital room. He didn't know what he was going to find. Before he had a chance to change his mind, the door opened.

'Aaron.'

'Haley.'

She stepped aside to let him in.

'He's asleep,' she said softly, watching Jack's chest rise and fall with each breath.

'What did the doctor say?'

'Pneumonia.'

It was late. Late and cold.

***

It was after twelve when JJ and Garcia returned to the hospital. Neither had felt right, going home when Emily was like this. They had returned independently of each other, meeting by chance in the parking lot.

'You're Agent Prentiss' colleagues?' a nurse in the ward asked them.

'Friends,' corrected Garcia. 'Colleagues and friends.'

'How's she doing?' asked JJ, voice the slightest bit fearful.

'Asleep now,' said the nurse. 'But she was talking to herself earlier tonight. It's a start, I suppose.'

JJ and Garcia entered the room. By the dim light, they could see her clutching at the bedrail in her state of slumber. 'It's a start,' JJ said.

***

A bed. She was cuffed to a bed. Even in her delirious state, she could see where this was going. The same way it had the last hundred times. A hand caressed her gently. She said nothing, felt nothing. He kissed her neck softly. His technique was changing. It had begun rough, forceful. The whips and chains on the wall were for more than show. Now he seemed to be taking the experience a different way, as if it were for both their pleasure instead of just his.

She imagined those hands were someone else's. It wasn't hard. They were so similar in so many ways, murdering psychopath aside. Long fingered, strong hands. Lean, sculpted muscle. If she closed her eyes, she could almost be somewhere else.

This was her addiction.

This was what defined her.

***

'When did you realise you were in love with her?'

'I don't know if I'd call it love. It was more of a mutual understanding. After all I put her through, she felt nothing. Just like me.'

'I don't think you feel nothing.'

'No?'

'Defining yourself through love, that's not feeling nothing.'

'It wasn't love. I told you that?'

'Then what was it?'

'I don't know...Addiction? Solidarity. But not love.'

***

The fourth door on the left.

Each room had been terrible in its own way. This room only exacerbated the nausea that had washed over Reid upon viewing a fetus in a jar.

This was where that tiny child had grown from. Seeing a bed had never been a more painful experience for the two relatively seasoned FBI agents.

'He's into bondage,' observed Morgan. 'I'm betting that bed isn't the only place that did it.' To be so cavalier was the only way he could possible talk about this without punching the wall. It was that compartmentalisation thing that Emily had always been so good at. He wondered about the state of her mind now. Whether she had compartmentalised to the state of complete breakdown.

Whether she would ever really recover.

***

He stayed by his son's bedside. After a while, Haley came and sat beside him.

'I'm moving to Phoenix,' she said suddenly, though Hotch knew it was anything but sudden. This had been building up for a long time. Whatever he wanted, it definitely wasn't this. He barely saw Jack as it was. In ten years time, he wanted Jack to know his father as a person, not as a concept.

Sitting there, by Jack's side, he finally fell asleep. Ironically, it was one of the best sleeps he had ever had.

He hadn't had a full night's sleep since then.

***

Emily woke up to a strange sight. On a chair in the corner of the room, JJ and Garcia had fallen asleep on each other's shoulder. Her mouth twitched. It could almost have been called a smile. Hotch must have left some time while she was asleep.

An intern came in with breakfast. Someone on the team had obviously been nice to the hospital staff; both Garcia and JJ had been brought breakfast as well. The wafting smell of pancakes brought the two out of their awkward slumber.

While the pancakes had brought them there, they were ultimately distracted by the change in Emily's demeanour.

'Hey, Emily,' JJ tried, wondering if she would get a response.

'Hey JJ.'

'How're you doing?'

'A little better.'

The understatement of the century. JJ hadn't realised that sleep was so healing. She resolved to sleep more.

'Where's Hotch?' Emily asked. JJ faltered, finding herself unprepared for the question. She knew it would have come eventually. In the background, Garcia froze.

'He...'

'He blamed himself, didn't he?' Emily asked.

JJ nodded, partially relieved. If Emily understood, then the pain might go down a little easier.

Because nothing would bring Hotch back.

***

Footsteps woke her. Then the light switch. It was the same every morning. Every morning but this one. It wasn't the unsub. It wasn't Hotch.

It was Derek.

And that made it real.

He pulled her into a tight hug. Stunned, she said nothing. Did nothing. He held onto her hand.

She should have felt relieved. Overjoyed. Finally, she had been rescued.

Instead, she felt nothing.

***

'Do you feel guilt?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Do feel guilty, that she was missing for almost nine months before you could save her?'

'It comes with the job.'

'But this case. This was personal.'

'Yes, I feel guilty. I feel guilt every damn day. But I did what I could. For her, anyway.'

'You feel responsible for Agent Hotchner's death?'

'We could have stopped it.'

***

Just as JJ was about to tell her, Morgan and Reid entered. They looked grim, the expression only worsening at the scene before them.

'Emily...After your disappearance, Hotch killed himself.' She got out those words as quickly as possible. It was as though they were staining her mouth. She hadn't wanted to say them, and at the look on Emily's face, she probably should have waited.

Her mouth was open slightly, astonished. Her eyes widened. It couldn't be. She couldn't believe this. 'No,' she whispered. 'No. No. No.' She tried to turn away. She didn't want to look at them.

She couldn't escape it all.

'Don't you see, Emily.' His voice. Why was he here, if he was dead. 'You killed me, Emily. That's why I've been haunting you all this time. I'm dead because of your carelessness.' She put her hands over her ears, but his accusing voice permeated even that.

Now, she was human, she knew.

Because all she could feel was pain.

***

He turned his phone back on as he left the hospital. It rang almost immediately.

'Hotchner.'

'Hotch, it's Morgan. Where the hell are you, man?'

It was nearly lunchtime. He should have called them, told them where he was.

'I'm at the hospital. Jack has a pretty bad case of pneumonia.'

'Emily isn't with you?'

Hotch stopped in his tracks.

'She didn't show up this morning?'

'No, last I heard she was searching our vic's house last night with you.'

'She searched the house by herself. She was supposed to get you to pick her up.' There was panic in his voice. A sudden realisation, as though he knew what happened without any further evidence. His glass was half-empty.

'She's not answering her cell,' Morgan said.

'I'll go to the victim's house. You check Emily's apartment.'

He knew that if anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

***

'She felt responsible for his death.'

'We all did.'

'You seem to have recovered fairly well.'

'Constant guilt only leads to psychological problems. I have one last question for you.'

'By all means. This is my last supper after all.'

'You called the tip line. Why?'

'Constant guilt. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do feel something after all. May I ask a favor in return.'

'That depends on what it is.'

'Capacity for recovery. Another thing that defines us. I'd like to know how Agent Prentiss is doing.'

'I don't know. How about you ask her yourself.'

***

Half an hour later, they left the interrogation room. David Rossi cast a glance at his former colleague. She seemed taller. Older. She didn't really smile anymore. Her dark hair was braided down her back. A defining scar snaked from just beside her eye to the collar of her shirt. He knew that the scarring went further, deeper.

He hadn't spoken to her in three years.

'When's the execution?'

'Thursday. They needed someone to do a custodial, but apparently I'm not allowed alone in an interrogation room with him.' She gave a dark look to the ceiling. 'I can't imagine why.'

'So this is why they pulled me out of retirement,' Rossi mused.

'Morgan's in the New York field office. Reid's in Atlanta.'

'How're they doing?'

'I don't know. Haven't spoken to them. Listen, I have to go. Serial rapist in Michigan. Team's not going to lead itself.' She made to leave, stopping only when he began to speak.

'Hey, Emily. Try not to define yourself by guilt.' Without another word, he left.

She turned to her left. He was standing there, in the corner, dark eyes not missing a thing.

'What do you think?'

'Think about what?'

'Am I defining myself through guilt?'

'That's a pretty stupid question.' She looked at him, realised. She was standing there talking to the very manifestation of her guilt.

Of her pain.

Of her loss.

'Yeah,' she reasoned. 'It is.'

Of her addiction.

**A/N: Well that was interesting and fun. The point of this initially was to do a H/P fic, something I've never really done before. Let me start at the beginning. One of the very first CM episodes I saw was Fear and Loathing, which had some really great M/P moments. First impressions are pretty lasting, so I've only really shipped M/P to any extent since then. Once I start reading other fics, I realise there are a phenomenal amount of H/P shippers out there, and I'm not sure I understand it. So I decided to write one. Only it went from a fic about an actual relationship to a fic about a hallucinated relationship. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. Oh, also, enjoy the time jumps. It's the only way I could preserve the ending. Don't forget to Read and Review. Thirty seconds is all it takes.  
**


	2. Part II

The Things That Define Us

Part II

_**Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go.**_

_Sylvia Robinson_

***

'It's been a while since you've seen me. What made you decide to come back?'

'I've been having hallucinations.'

'Hallucinations?'

'Yes.'

'For how long?'

'I had them for about five years. Yesterday they stopped.'

***

She lay in the hospital bed, refusing to eat, refusing to talk. Every since they had told her. She didn't need the constant voice in her ear, saying that it was all her fault. She knew.

If she had cleared the apartment like she was supposed to, the mess that followed would never had happened. If she'd cleared the apartment like she was supposed to, he would still be alive. Now he was taunting her, blaming her. Nothing anyone else said made a difference.

'Do you want to know what death feels like?' It was late, and his was sitting next to her bed. She should have been sleeping. She would rather be sleeping. Even the incessant nightmares were better than this.

'That rumor – about life flashing before your eyes. It's true. Every good thing that ever happened to you, all in the space of a few seconds. Reminding you that you'll never be able to do those things again. Never be able to see your friends, see your family. Your wife, your son. Never again. And to think, that if you hadn't been stupid enough to ignore protocol, I'd still be here.' It was a variation on the same mantra he'd been repeating for hours now. She locked away the part of herself that wanted to break down into tears. To succumb to the pain.

'Do you want to know what my last thoughts were? Of how I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you. But I didn't know. I didn't know that it was your fault. You killed me, Emily. You left a little boy without a father.'

'JUST STOP!' she screamed, and burst into tears. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered, sobs shaking her body. 'I'm so sorry.'

She had been broken down by her own psyche.

***

He had almost broken down outside the hospital. It took him almost half an hour to gather his composure and head back to the victim's house. He'd seen the photos the unsub had sent. He'd seen what torture these women had been through. By the end of it, he doubted they were even human.

'Feeling guilty?' a voice came from beside him. He almost reached for his gun, when he realised. It was _her_ voice. Or rather, his subconscious's interpretation of her voice. He knew he hadn't been getting much sleep lately – last night had been the exception. The combination of that and his gradual mental breakdown would produce hallucinations.

'Yes,' he told the voice. He got out of the car, slamming the door shut on his own remorse.

***

JJ, Garcia and Emily were the only ones still in the BAU. The team had fractured, after the catastrophic events that left Aaron Hotchner dead. Even now, Emily barely spoke to the other two unless it concerned a case; a press conference to be given, financial records to be tracked down. She couldn't look them in the eye, knowing that Hotch should still be alive.

'Hands in the air.' She held the grip of her pistol tightly. Her old, faithful companion.

The unsub complied without too much complaint. He knew the score. He wasn't suicidal. When she was cuffing him, he began to speak.

'Do you want to hear what I did to them? How I ravished their bodies? How I made them my own? The sound of their screams as they begged for mercy. The sound of their moans. I'm getting hard just thinking about it.' She shoved him into the back of the police car. 'Oh, you like it rough, do you?' he called out through the glass.

'Nice catch, boss.' Agent Owen Grey had been Morgan's replacement. He was short, wiry, and had a strange fascination with Judy Garland films.

'You sure showed him, ey?' Agent Clark McGregor was Reid's replacement. He was of medium height, had pale blond hair, and his favorite food was nachos drenched in cheese.

'Good job.' Agent Stacy Merriam. Rossi's replacement. Favorite color green.

Their comments were another attempt at getting her to lighten up. She was fairly sure they had money down on the matter. She gave them a half smile – not quite tantamount to loosening up, in their book – and went looking for JJ.

'It was a good takedown,' a voice in her ear said. His voice. Low, rich and warm. How she missed him when he wasn't there for her.

'You've done better,' she replied in a voice equally as low.

'You say something, Prentiss?' JJ. It was almost like talking to a stranger. There was little familiarity between them anymore.

'How's the victim?' She didn't see blame in those blue eyes. She saw pity.

Maybe it was time to let go of the guilt.

'We got here just in time. She should be fine with some counselling.'

'If only we were all so lucky.' Emily's voice was dark. It had been for so long now.

JJ tried to break through the barrier. Usually her attempts had been met with grunts, or brush-offs. Today, when she asked, 'How have you been holding up?' she got a response.

It took a couple of seconds, and some courage, but finally, Emily said, 'I'm doing...better.'

'Did you want to talk about it?' JJ was expecting a no. It was always a no. She was reminded of Hotch in his dark period. She didn't want this to end the same way.

'The custodial was on Monday.' She didn't need to say which custodial, for JJ immediately understood. 'I saw Dave. He's doing well. I guess I kind of got a bit of closure. I guess I finally understand some things.'

'But you'll never understand why I did what I did.' She tried to brush away that voice. She couldn't see him anymore, but she could still hear him.

A cancer, eating away inside of her.

***

Her fingers burned. He'd focused on the fingers today – she wasn't quite sure why. Thumbscrews, bamboo shoots. She wanted to clench her hands into a fist, but couldn't, for fear of breaking them further.

There was a tray of food in the corner. Quiches and pastries. Finger food.

'Looks like someone has a sense of humor.' He was back.

'Knowing that he has a sense of humor isn't all that comforting.' Her hands were shaking. She was hungry – starving, even. This was the first food that'd been put out in three days.

That's why _he_ was there. To help her get through the pain.

A broken hand reached out for the tray.

***

'Do you understand the reason for the hallucination?'

'He was there to help me get through the pain.'

'And if the hallucination remains, what does that imply?'

'...that I'm still in pain.'

***

They sedated her. Reduced her to a shivering mass. None of the BAU team could bring themselves to leave her side.

'We think she's hallucinating,' a doctor told them. 'We've arranged for another appointment with the psychologist. Maybe she'll be ready to talk by then.'

'But will we be ready to listen?' asked Morgan softly.

'What was that, Morgan?' asked JJ. Her head was drooped, and he seemed tired.

'I'm just wondering if we're ready. Look at us. We'd break down the second we hear her story. We're all feeling guilty about one thing or another.'

'And we always will,' said Rossi dully.

***

Signs of a struggle at the victim's house. Blood on the floor. Her blood.

His fingers brushed it lightly. His stomach lurched. He was going to be sick.

Had he done this?

He pulled out his phone, called Morgan. 'Morgan, it's Hotch. Don't worry about checking out her apartment.'

'_You found her?_'

Vomit rose in his throat. He thought he was going to be sick.

'No. There's blood at the house. I think the unsub's got her.'

There was a clattering sound on the other end of the line, and then a long beep. Hotch could guess what had happened; Morgan had dropped his phone.

He couldn't hold it in any more. He emptied the contents of his stomach in the corner of the room. The pain in his lower stomach remained, though he knew it was probably that guilt, rather than nausea.

She was always trying to protect the rest of them, but gave little thought for protecting herself. He wanted so much to be able to protect her now.

A hand touched his back. A phantom hand, but a hand nonetheless. He'd felt her touch before, in Lower Canaan. Firm yet delicate fingertips. He supposed the hallucination was based on that moment, plus his own mind filling in the gaps.

'It's okay. I'm here for you.' Was that the kind of thing she'd say? Probably. She'd probably tell him not to blame himself, but he knew he couldn't believe that.

Because if he couldn't blame himself, then he couldn't blame anyone.

***

'Hey Garcia.' The media liaison would often come down to see Garcia in the off hours. It gave them both an outlet from the stress of the job.

'Hey, chickadee. How'd the case go? I heard Prentiss gave one hell of a takedown.'

'Yeah. She spoke to me, afterwards. The custodial was on Monday.'

'Oh God, I completely forgot.'

'She's doing better, I think.'

I'm going to try and find the tapes.' Garcia wanted – needed – to know what had gone down in that interrogation room. JJ normally would have ordered against it, but her desire was just as strong.

They'd spent five years trying to get their Emily back, damned if they were going to stop now.

***

It was dark. He hadn't turned on the lights in two days. He'd just left her there, wallowing in her own filth. He'd taken away the bucket. He'd taken away her clothes. No food, no water. She was sure it was supposed to be some kind of ritual humiliation, break her down until she was ashamed to even be human.

But she had a secret that he didn't know.

She wasn't alone.

On the third day, he dragged her out of there. Brought her to a small room, the impossibly white light a stark contrast to the previous surroundings. He loosed her bonds, and turned a tap on the far wall. A torrent of water shot from the ceiling in stinging needles. Raw wounds screamed with pain. Dirt and bodily fluids washed from her skin.

She didn't move from the foetal position she had adopted. She didn't want the unsub to see her face. Didn't want him to see the grim determination that was planted upon it. There were whispers. A voice, telling her how brave she was, how special she was. For that time, it made her feel above humiliation.

Above pain.

***

'This...hallucination. Of Agent Hotchner. It shielded you, for lack of a better term, until you discovered he had died. Then what did it do?'

'Accused me, for a while. Taunted.'

'Made you feel guilty?'

'Yes.'

'Was there any external stimulus to suggest you should be feeling guilty?'

'...'

***

He was still there when she woke up. Dark eyes, taunting. She had never realised how expressive he could be with his eyes. Black lights, tearing into her soul.

'Hey, girl.' Morgan was at her bedside. He seemed to be the only other person in the room. Apart from her constant companion, of course. 'How're you feeling?'

An interesting question. "Like my heart's been torn from my chest" would have been an appropriate answer. He looked into her eyes, and, blinking back tears, she tried to turn away. She didn't want his eyes boring into her as well.

She grunted in dishonest assent. She couldn't be fine. He wasn't shielding the pain anymore. He was intensifying it. 'Tell him. Tell him how you forgot to check the apartment for hostiles. Tell him how getting kidnapped was your own fault. Tell him how _my death_ was your fault. TELL HIM.'

'Please, Derek,' she pleaded with him. 'Make it go away.'

***

Hotch hadn't slept properly in weeks. But then, his waking hours were just as painful. When he slept, he was awoken by her screams. When he was awake, he was tormented by dead ends in the investigation and _her_ constant gaze.

Haley was leaving for Phoenix that week. Taking Jack away from him. His life was falling apart around him.

'Hotch.' He looked up at his name. His hair hadn't been cut, his chin unshaven. His tie was askew. Tired eyes looked out at JJ.

'Strauss wants to see you. Now.'

He got up from his desk. The normally organised surface was strewn with files. He couldn't even see the polished veneer.

His knuckles rapped the solid door. 'Come in.' If he hadn't been so distracted, he would have noticed the barely concealed strain in Strauss' voice. A missing agent was stressful for everyone.

'Sit down, Agent Hotchner.' He sat, knowing that whatever Strauss wanted him for, it wasn't coffee and cake.

'Your team has been working this case for two months. Not only have you produced no discernable results, one of your agents is missing. I'm afraid I have no choice but to call in another team to take the case.'

Aaron Hotchner cracked.

***

She seemed a little easier with them, JJ noted. She made a joke or two, but it was so unusual that no-one noticed immediately. Early morning, after a case, she called out to JJ as she was leaving.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

'How...' her voice cracked. She was having difficulty even asking JJ the question she wanted to ask. 'How're you doing?' It was so simple a question, but it had taken her almost five years to ask.

JJ cracked a smile. 'I'm good.'

'And Will? Henry?'

'They're good.'

'That's good....Did you want to grab a drink sometime? Old times, y'know.' She talked fast. Nervous, afraid of rejection.

'You think getting their approval will make killing me okay? That it will just make it all go away?' Emily froze at the sound of his voice. Her breathing patterns changed.

Though not technically a profiler, JJ picked up on these changes. 'That'd be great,' she said quickly, before Emily could run away.

'Okay. Great.' Emily let out a deep breath, blocking the voice in her head. 'Eightish?'

She wasn't going to let that guilt get the better of her. Not anymore.

***

He had a knife in his hand, but he didn't seem to be interested in using it anymore. Fresh wounds decorating her torso already leaked crimson tears. Absent-mindedly, his hand stroked across her upper body. He wouldn't – couldn't – look into her eyes.

Remorse.

'He's breaking,' a voice told her. She glanced across, and saw him leaning against the wall, clad in his impeccable suit and tie. 'He can't stand to cause you pain anymore.'

On an unconscious level, she must have known that. Must have noticed that. After all, he was a part of her, wasn't he? Her mind's way of minimising the pain. The image she found most comforting.

The image that would cause her the most pain to lose.

***

'Without the guilt, would it still have hurt as much?'

'Yes.'

'Why do you think that?'

'...Because I was in love with him.'

***

'Hey, hey. It's okay.' Morgan knew it wasn't okay. How could he look her in the eye, knowing that they probably could have done more to save her.

They shared no solace in their private guilt.

When the Psychologist came at the scheduled appointment time, Morgan left. He knew better than to interfere with professionals.

He looked at his watch. It was almost 10am. He had his own appointment.

His own guilt.

***

Morgan got in to work just a few minutes late, but felt as though he'd missed a whole lot more. Hotch, screaming bloody murder at Erin Strauss. He only caught the tail end of it, which involved Hotch stalking past him furiously into the open elevator.

He stared at JJ, open-mouthed. 'What just happened here?'

JJ gave him a grim, tired look. 'Strauss is taking us off the case. Hotch got mad. Then Hotch got suspended.'

Morgan suspected that there were a few details missing from the explanation, but he didn't have time to think about that. He had his own anger now.

He found Strauss, his eye fiery. 'What do you think you're doing, _ma'am_?' He injected the final word with enough venom to kill an elephant.

'Your team has lost its objectivity. You're all getting far too emotional, and getting emotional means that you will miss details. I thought it best for everyone that a _less-involved_ team take the case. By no means are we letting this rest, Agent Morgan.' While it may have been a logical explanation, Morgan found his anger wanting to trump that logic. "And that's why you're off the case," a tiny voice in the back of his head said.

'Yeah,' he muttered to himself. 'Shut up.'

***

It was seven-thirty, and she was sitting nervously at the bar. A few men had tried to approach her. She had sent them away with a fierce glance.

JJ got there at quarter to eight, and she wasn't alone. Garcia, Morgan, Reid and Rossi were with her. She had really done the rounds.

'You knew this was a bad idea.' It wasn't him anymore. It had stopped being him a long time ago. Now it was some twisted demon, preying on her mind, infecting her with its poison. Using that famed compartmentalisation skill, she tried to lock away that addiction.

Morgan grabbed what appeared to be the last free table, scaring off a frat boy that had been about to steal it from under him. He did look scarier – it was the eyes.

She let herself be hugged, first by Garcia and JJ, then by Reid and Morgan. Rossi seemed willing to content himself with a professional handshake, but halfway through, he changed his mind and pulled her into a hug.

'They still blame you. Can't you see it in their eyes?'

The voice barely even registered.

She felt guilty. She always would.

But then, she wasn't alone.

***

He let her shower. Let her wash clean of the filth that marred her once flawless skin. The scars would remain, reminding her of those months they spent together. He let her towel dry, gave her fresh, clean clothes. A heavenly experience in comparison to the rest of her stay.

He locked her in the cell, a tray of food – real food – and drink sitting at the door.

He went upstairs, to the telephone. He dialled a number. He'd never called before, never contacted them in that personal manner. He'd sent letters, pictures. Enough to let them know what he was doing.

'FBI tipline? Your missing agent, Emily Prentiss? I can tell you where she is.'

Downstairs, he sat with her in the darkness. Her constant companion. 'He's either going to kill you, or release you. Which do you think is more likely?'

'I don't know which one is more likely, but I know which one I want.'

Hallucinations aside, Emily Prentiss prayed for death.

***

He was sitting in his car. She sat in the passenger's seat, silent.

'You aren't going to stop me?' he asked bitterly.

'There's no reason to,' was her simple reply.

He stared at the gun. His salvation.

Maybe he'd find some kind of solace, some kind of peace. He turned sideways to his constant companion. 'I love you,' he said.

'I know.'

He put the gun into his mouth, acrid metal poisoning his tongue.

It took them seven hours to clean blood and brains from the leather upholstery.

***

'I was surprised to hear about your stay of execution.'

'I needed this conversation. Alone. No other agents to spoil the fun.'

'You wanted to see how I was doing?'

'I admit, I have ulterior motives.'

'Would you tell me what they are?'

'Never.'

The guard came in, uncuffed him from the table. In a blur of movement, a flash of color, he'd knocked out the guard, his limp body blocking the door. A second later, and his hand was at her throat.

'It's been five years,' he said. 'You couldn't do this yourself?'

'I was afraid.' He tightened his grip, slowing the oxygen to her lungs. She choked out a cough. Her hands seemed to be on a separate wavelength to the rest of her, trying to pry those fingers from her throat.

'Thank-you,' she managed, before slowly sinking into unconsciousness.

When the guards finally broke through the door, the unsub was sitting at his chair, as though nothing had happened.

Her eyes were wide open, bruises at her neck. That distinctive scar, snaking its way down her body. Two fingers to the wrist. 'She's dead,' said the guard to his companion.

The unsub smiled to himself. He'd killed his number twenty-seven.

He was not alone in his facial expression.

He was waiting for her on the other side. The person who defined her.

**A/N: I wasn't expecting to write this, but there were a few things I forgot to include in Part I. And yeah, I went the ultra-depressing route.**


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